


Pin Feathers

by runbravelybackward (victorienne)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: M/M, Runawaystuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-09
Updated: 2012-05-09
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorienne/pseuds/runbravelybackward
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Permanently dropped</b>
</p><p>Dave is molting, and he has an itch he can't scratch. He consents to let John take care of it for him--and then some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pin Feathers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kelaruj](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelaruj/gifts).



> This is why I should not be allowed to be on tumblr and write things while finals are killing me slowly: I end up with half-finished porn with no plot to speak of. Someone stop me. \o/
> 
> Anyhow, this is based this [runawaystuck art](http://kilehye.tumblr.com/post/22638527607) by [kilehye](http://kilehye.tumblr.com) (from [tarecgosa](http://tarecgosa.tumblr.com/)'s AU concept), since I couldn't not write a fic based on it. Sorry for having to split this in two--the porn is coming; my brain's just to fried to finish it tonight. orz

You flop onto the bed and curl your talons into the sheets underneath you, trying keep your fingers busy as you resist the urge to scratch at your molting wings. The sheets rustle as your wings twitch with the itches you can't scratch and you grunt in annoyance. Several years ago, you learned the hard way that scratching your molting feathers with your talons is likely to knick a pin feather, causing it to bleed profusely and making the experience even more uncomfortable--a remarkable feat. Since that experience, you've spent your molting time a drained, irritable mess, rubbing your wings against the floor, your cage bars--anything available that won't scratch a pin feather and cause you to gush blood.

But now that you're free, you've decided to spend your miserable two weeks of molting confined to your bedroom whenever possible. You writhe on your back, rubbing your wings against the mattress as best you can. The whole experience is rather unsatisfactory, but it's the best you can manage.

"Dave? What are you doing?"

You stop your undignified squirming immediately when John barges into your room, but you can't summon the strength to sit up. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Uh, twitching?"

You sigh in exasperation.

"What's wrong?" he asks as he comes over to sit next to you on the bed. "You've been out of it for days. I can't help unless you tell me what's wrong."

"I don't need help. Unless you can change my molting schedule to be nonexistant, I think we're out of luck."

"There has to be some way I can help." Your face twitches as your left wing spasms, and you fail to resist the urge to embarrass yourself by squirming to rub it against the bed. John snickers, and if you had any motivation to move, you would punch him. "Do your wings itch?"

With a sigh of resignation, you nod.

"I can help with that! Sit up."

His bossy tone annoys you, but you're not willing to argue. You're also not willing to sit up, so you roll over onto your stomach instead, spreading your wings until they drape over the edges of the bed.  "This is all you get. Get to it."

You can almost feel John roll his eyes or stick out his tongue or engage in some similarly ineffectual Egbertian protest, and it makes the corners of your lips twitch upward. He repositions himself on the edge of the bed, and suddenly, you feel his fingers dig into your feathers.

"Shit, watch it. Don't manhandle the merchandise."

"Sorry, sorry." He lightens the pressure while continuing to scratch along the edge of your right wing. You sigh contentedly as some of your discomfort fades. Maybe you should have just asked him for his help.

But then his fingers approach the base of your wing, digging further into the layers of feathers. The muscles of your wings flex, and your breathing speeds up. It feels... really good. As he continues, you fail to hold in a quiet moan, and John's fingers freeze. Brilliant. Way to fuck this one up.

He takes his hands away from your wings, and you're about to attempt to literally kick yourself. "Sorry, I d- Ahhhhh..."

You feel John's fingers press between your feathers and scratch gently at the sensitive bases of both your wings. You moan again, and you feel John's lips press against the back of your neck, making you shiver. His dextrous fingers can play you for reactions as perfectly as he plays the speakeasy's tinny piano. He shifts and swings his leg over to straddle your hips. His new angle gives him greater leverage to press his fingers deep into your feathers, turning his attention to your left wing as you bury your reddening face in the pillow and claw at the sheets. Each time he brushes past a particularly sensitive spot, you moan quietly and find yourself trying to rut against the mattress to get some relief for your growing erection.

You're trying to keep your breathing steady and your embarrassingly needy thrusting as shallow and unnoticable as possible, but the way John has started to memorize the sweet spots that make you moan and squirm the most and is specifically brushing his fingers lightly over and around them, teasing you relentlessly, is making it incredibly difficult. When he brushes over the sensitive spot just above your left wing's base for what seems like the thousandth time, you can't stop the small, needy sound that forms in your throat. You squack feebly in annoyance with your own arousal, but you quickly change your mind when something in John seems to snap. He presses his fingers down against that sensitive spot, forcing a groan from your lips.

You cling to the sheets for dear life as his fingers wander across your wings again, massaging every sweet spot he can remember. And he remembers more than you do. You're panting, moaning quietly with every breath, and your erection is straining painfully against your pants.

"John...," you murmur into the pillow as you knead the sheets and mattress with clawed fingers.

He leans over to kiss the back of your neck before bringing his lips to brush against your ear. "Yes, Dave?"

Someone so dweeby has no right being able to make you shiver like that every time he whispers your name in your ear. And ever since he got that reaction out of you, he's done it a lot.

You turn your face and hiss, "Would you hurry the fuck up?"

He grins, then presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek. "Will do!"


End file.
